1 There is something fatal about a portrait.
2 That is the fatality of faith, and the lesson of romance.
3 The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life.
4 I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions--that they are always made too late.
5 He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away.
6 There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings.
7 He took it up, as he had done on that night of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield.
8 He remembered that the night before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.
9 One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time.